The Company We Keep
by oxytocin
Summary: A collection of Sherlock Holmes drabbles! To be updated periodically. Holmes/Watson
1. Falling

_"i've fallen out of favour and i've fallen from grace, fallen out of trees and i've fallen on my face. fallen out of taxis, out of windows too. i fell in your opinion when i fell in love with you."_

_You're breaking my heart._ Watson thinks pointedly at Holmes over breakfast one morning.

Holmes munches on his toast.

It was all very convoluted, but Watson had gathered a handful of things, of which he felt pretty certain:

One. Watson knew he loved Holmes. Two. Watson knew Holmes knew that Watson loved Holmes. Three. Holmes didn't love Watson.

Or at least that's what Watson assumed. Like he said, it was all very convoluted. When it came to Sherlock Holmes, nothing was clear - except to the detective himself, of course.

Watson just knew, that since it was impossible to hide anything about himself from Holmes, it was all basically just writing on the wall.

Watson's lost his appetite.

It's some kind of stupid, sadness waltz, the way they dance around each other. Finally it hits Watson like a cold burst of air as he sits by the fire one evening, that he can't continue on like this. Not unless he's willing to be unhappy for the rest of his life.

Not with how Holmes has a way of poking, prodding, and pushing at the doctor, choosing words that make Watson's heart lurch in his chest. Often Watson wonders why he's doing this, and then Holmes will get that gleam in his eye and Watson's mouth will go dry.

It takes weeks, maybe even months, of dancing since Watson's realisation. The words finally fly out of Holmes's mouth though, like he's tired of waiting for Watson to get around to it.

"I don't understand." Watson is saying, his voice raised slightly. "Are you really that heartless, or is caring honestly that difficult for you?"

"Yes, well," Holmes snaps, eyes blazing. "At least my apparent lack of emotion prevents me from going around, falling in love with people who just continue to disappoint me."

The silence is stifling, and then it's broken by the echo of the door slamming behind Watson as he walks out.

_"Sometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release. Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief. Because falling's not the problem, when I'm falling I'm at peace. It's only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief."_

Watson really hates the jumpers, they're the hardest to look at. As he examines them, it's like he can see flashes of their life above their eyelids - or what their life could've been.

But as he stairs down at the water below him, some small, sad part of him gets it.

He's sitting on a bridge that hangs low over the Thames. He knows the jump won't kill him, just be frightfully cold.

Watson pushes himself off the bridge.

There's that brief moment of bliss, a thrill in his chest as the air rushes in his ears. Then he hits the water, it's icy depths enveloping and swallowing him up. There's another silence, an absolute quiet as he under, the water weighing over his head.

Watson is about to swim to the surface, his lungs are crying for air, but suddenly there are arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him ashore. He's too numb to do much, so when they surface, he's surprised by a soaking Sherlock Holmes, looking at him maniacally.

There's an uncomfortable pause, and then, "I was fine." says Watson, his mouth still a little numb around the edges.

Holmes just stares. Watson eyes him, and is about to open his mouth again, when Holmes suddenly punches him squarely in the chest, hard. Watson staggers.

"Don't you ever do anything like that again!" Holmes shouts, breathless. "I thought...I thought..." He trails off.

Watson's chest hurts, but it's not the punch. Holmes is avoiding his gaze, a pained look on his face, his eyes dark.

Watson can't think. Watson doesn't want to think, because he's just realised that everything he had previously thought was wrong.

He grabs Holmes's shoulder, forcing the man to look at him.

"Won't happen again."


	2. Vaporise

_the longer we wait around, the faster the years go by._

One day it strikes Watson that Holmes is waiting for something.

Watson hesitates (he's been doing that a lot lately), pausing for a moment while reading a book to read Holmes's body language.

Holmes is curled up in his chair, looking thoroughly rumpled and unhappy. He stares into the fire and the light flickers across his face. He senses Watson's gaze though, and his eyes glance up.

Watson swiftly directs his attention back to his book. Whatever it is, it'll pass, Watson decides. Things always pass.

However, this one doesn't. Holmes slips a little farther away every day, slipping back into his old vices and devices. Watson helps out a first, tending to wounds and pushing or fussing Holmes around. Instead of the usual witty remarks or even outright defiance, Holmes simply deflects Watson. He's silence, more moody than usual, and it's beginning to border on irritation rather than worry for Watson.

He tries to give up, to leave Holmes to himself. That only last a few nights though, because when the detective comes back from the Punchbowl more broken than usual, Watson swallows his anger and takes care of Holmes's injuries.

Holmes won't look him in the eye and for once Watson is thankful. But then he notices how Holmes shies away from his touch a little, wincing too much when Watson lightly presses on his wounds. Watson's eye grow wide when he realises how vulnerable Holmes is acting.

"What's going on?" the doctor finally mutters.

Holmes looks at him, eyes glassy. Something stirs inside of Watson and he grabs Holmes's shoulders. Turning the man to face him, he asks more sharply, "What's wrong?"

Watson is aware of how hot Holmes's skin feels underneath his hands or of how smooth that skin actually is. He's aware of how close their faces are, of how Holmes's breath drifts across his cheeks.

All of Watson's repressed feelings are threatening to boil over now, and he's desperately scrambling to look objectively at Holmes. He fails miserably. Watson takes a deep breath and stares at the floor, now allowing himself to look up.

Holmes curls his fingers around Watson's hair, a gesture so delicate that Watson is stunned. Holmes's lips speak against the top of Watson's head as he says, "I'm waiting."

"Waiting for whaa..." the question dies in Watson throat when Holmes tilts his chin up and Watson sees that Holmes's eyelashes are wet. Something softly clicks in the back of his mind.

He leans forward and lightly presses his lips against Holmes's, and the detective instantly falls into the doctor like a great weight had been lifted off of his shoulders.

* * *

Thanks for all the interest in my little drabble collections~ It really makes me happy, since I really enjoy writing these. haha I'm made for sprints, I guess, but one I get all caught up with everything, I'm going to crack open the longer one shots and chaptered fics!


	3. In The Next Room

_oh i lose control when i hear your body move through the walls in the next room._

Sometimes Holmes wishes he and Watson shared a room.

Late at night, Holmes doesn't need to see to know when Watson's light is on in his room as he scribbles away. He can feel each pause and each blot on the page, and Holmes's fingers will twitch because he wants to see Watson's face illuminated by candlelight.

Holmes stuffs his face into his pillow and unsuccessfully attempt to block everything out.

Holmes is pretending to have fallen asleep when Watson returns from a late night of dining out. _Lilac perfume with an undertone of honey_ is the first thing to pop into Holmes's mind as he sits curled up in an armchair, eyes closed. Watson moves and the scent becomes stronger, and now his mind is filled with images - possible dinner scenarios. Was the woman's laugh light and bubbly, or low and dark? Did Watson's eyes sparkle as he leaned in to whisper in her ear? Was the woman's hand gloved as she brushed her fingers across his arm? Was Watson's smile seductive or-

Holmes's thoughts are broken as the door to Watson's room shuts, and his eyes snap open.

Holmes wear Watson's clothes the next day, stealing while the doctor is still sleeping. He wants to obliterate the smell of the perfume with his own.

The detective leans against Watson's door, listening to the other man breathe.

* * *

Sorry this one's so short, it was a lot longer when I wrote it out by hand...

Also, I've noticed I only write angst for these two. It's depressing, I'm writing fluffy goodness soon.


	4. Little Red Dress

Holmes is the definition of amused when Watson shows back up at the apartment in a torn red dress and smudged lipstick. (He had thought it was a woman walking through the door, until he noticed she was limping.)

The door to Watson's room slams shut as Holmes calls, "You've lost some weight!"

Twenty minutes later Watson returns as Holmes is lighting up his pipe. The doctor glances at Holmes as he sits in a chair, Holmes shoots him an expectant look. When Watson hesitates for a moment too long, Holmes breaks the silence with, "I thought I told you you look better in the blue one."

Watson shoots him a death glare but coughs uncomfortably. "…if you'd allow me to explain-"

"Oh," Holmes grins. "I wish you would."

"You were very incapacitated." Watson explains quickly. "Fascinated by the ceiling and everything, laying on the floor, and this old woman came in and wouldn't go away, even when I told her you were…unavailable. She persisted, and even seemed convinced I could solve her problem anyways."

"And of course," Holmes adds. "Being the kind, caring, somewhat doormat of a man you are, you listened."

"Apparently her daughter had been murdered by a rich, well respected man. She wanted me to take her daughter's invitation to a dinner he was holding this evening, confront him, and figure out the truth."

"Please tell me you refused," Holmes interjects. "Though I gather you didn't from you recent attire. Why didn't you wake me? I'm better at this sort of thing that you."

"I tried." Says Watson dryly. The statement "yes, we both know you're better at cross dressing" hangs in the air, and they both choose to ignore it.

"Anyways," Watson continues. "I put on the disguise and attended the party. I actually had made it almost the whole way through dinner without talking until someone called out my name."

"Someone recognized you?" says Holmes, horrified. "Watson, after everything I've taught you about-"

Watson cuts him off. "Not my name Holmes, the girl's name."

"Oh."

"I was able to evade them pretty quickly, but the patron, believing I was the woman he murdered, slipped off. I followed."

"And he didn't even check to see if you really were the young woman." Holmes rolls his eyes. "I swear, the quality of criminals these days-"

"He revealed everything as he attacked me. One of the servants overheard and rang the police." Watson finishes.

Holmes can't resist commenting. "He attacked you and didn't even notice you were a man. Amazing."

They fall back into silence for a few moments until Holmes breaks it again. "I must say, Watson, you must have been quite the sight returning back here."

Watson flushes as Holmes's eye glints. The detective adds, "Also Watson…next time you decide to wear a dress, please make sure I'm conscious."


	5. Dr Watson

Watson wakes to the sound of something breaking in Holmes's room

He waits for a few moments before moving, but after another crash and the sound of something large hitting the floor, Watson slides out of his bed with a sigh and a grimace.

The door to Holmes's room is ajar, so Watson doesn't have to knock. He tugs on the sleeves of his shirt and steps into the room, bracing himself for the inevitable scene of destruction.

Holmes sits on the flor, staring at a giant gash in his right hand. Broken glass is scattered all over, trickling off of Holmes's desk and down at his feet. The edges of Holmes's hair is singed from what must have been some sort small explosion because the edges of Holmes's robe is burnt as well. Watson steps carefully so as not to cut his feet on the glass and notices that there are more cuts on Holmes, all over his face and arms. When Holmes suddenly looks up at him, Watson realises he's let out a frustrated cry.

Watson grabs Holmes's chin and tilts it so that he's forced to look at him. Watson sighs at the cuts across Holmes's cheeks.

"It was hardly intentional, Watson." Holmes says. "Research is research, you know."

"Forgive me if I can't take you seriously when you've burnt off an eyebrow." Watson replies dryly, and he pulls Holmes up by his shoulder, not missing how the man winces, and pushes him into a chair.

"Dont move. " He tells Holmes darkly, and for once Holmes thankfully obeys.

Watson returns to his room and grabs his medical bag. As he walks back, he sees that he's gotten Holmes's blood on his shirt. New shirt.

Watson gives another exasperated sigh.

Holmes watches him carefully as he reenters the room, moving swiftly over to the chair and kneeling at Holmes's side. He attends to Holmes's bleeding hand first, and Watson can tell Holmes is unnerved by his silence, but he's silent anyways as he cleans and bandages the hand.

Watson is more than a little tired of acting like Holmes's mother all the time. And he hasn't bothered to look at the clock, but he's sure it's some ungodly hour early in the morning, because Holmes's seems to be convinced he can actually live without sleeping. Watson ties the bandages on Holmes's hand maybe a little bit tighter than necessary as he thinks about how much he wishes Holmes would stop believing he's impervious to injury, even if everyone tells him he's not human.

"Ouch! Be _delicate_, Watson." Holmes says, and even though his tone is light, his eyes watch Watson carefully.

Watson rolls his eyes and continues to clean up the rest of the cuts. Like usual, he becomes a little flushed when he has to move his hands all over Holmes's face, but he's used to it enough by now that his hands remain steady, even if his pulse doesn't. Holmes looks at him curiously, probably _sensing_ the change in Watson, so Watson finishes quickly and stands.

"I'm going back to be-" He begins, but Holmes sets his hand on Watson's arm and pulls himself up, leaning into Watson and saying close to Watson's ear, "Thank you, Doctor."

Watson's breath falters and he can swear Holmes is smirking with his eyes. He huffs and rolls his eyes, trying to cover up the palpitations in his chest.

If Holmes notices this, he doesn't say anything. Just presses his thumb into Watson's wrist and quietly wishes him a good night.


End file.
